LOST AND BROKEN, LONELY HOUR OF THE NIGHT
Lost and broken, lonely hour of the night. Wounded,
but it doesn’t matter by what anymore.
Intimate estrangement with the sleeping town,
don’t know whether I’m a streetlamp or a window,
but it’s all right, all right for the moment.
Enticingly sweet, almost peace, when
I remember my exile isn’t dishonest
and how far I had to come to believe in my solitude.
Hard not to betray your imagination sometimes
by resenting what you had to lose to stay true to it.
I don’t. There’s a soft beauty like an autumn night,
though it’s spring, in the voice of the ghost
of the train whistle howling by and a distance
even space can’t conceive of that comes close
to breaking my heart like the rain acquainted through tears
overflowing with the sorrows of too many eyes
to care whether it’s a freshly dug grave
or a garden it falls upon. Things we attribute
our mortality to bloom and perish like the new moon
I can’t see through the clouds tonight, but trust is there.
This is the rose of dark abundance. This is the thorn
of bright vacancy. If I saw a star right now
I’d think it’s light were a mode of longing
for something beyond love and death it doesn’t
even know about on the neither side of its shining.
Maybe it wants to whisper something into the ears
on the towers of Pleiadic larkspur that will change their lives.
Maybe it’s just tilting at a galactic windmill
that keeps quixotically turning and turning
over and over again in its heart like a gust of time
blowing on a prayer wheel as fixed as a sundial
following its own shadow like a direction to the light.
Or maybe in some kind of indeterminate way
we’re both wavelengths in synch trying
to sprout wings for the immensities ahead,
fireflies and dragons alike, staring into the darkness,
hoping to open the eyes of wildflowers on a hillside
that have reclaimed the far fields no one’s ploughed under for lightyears,
me, for a bit of blue sky that’s never witnessed a false dawn,
and it, for a loveletter that finally wrote back
though there was nothing but solitude and silence inside,
and the fragrance of burning doves in the emptiness
that take shelter under the eaves of this house of life
that keeps rising out of its own ashes at the faint sound
of the half-familiar song of a sacred syllable
we derived an inalienable solace from once as if
the only way to respond to pain were, indelibly,
with flowers, waterlilies and wild irises down by the river,
blooming in the urns of our childhood like pyres in the rain.